


trespass of the woven track

by mickleborger



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person, fey gay elves, the waning of the elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7221355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickleborger/pseuds/mickleborger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>two fey creatures heading towards opposite sides of the end cross paths</p>
            </blockquote>





	trespass of the woven track

The shadows grow long in the thing that was Lindórinand and she tells you that a prince has been born, a little thing with one dappled dark eye from his mother's wood and one grey eye from the sea his father almost came to.  She has walked the road here and the laces of her boots are caked with mud, her bracers worn and her bow strung.  She hears the rustle of the leaves as if they were gulls but does not heed them, and though in her eyes you see wonder she stands apart from the light of Faerie like the leaves that gather between rocks and rapids on a river that throws itself into the Sea.

Her hair is red the way the leaves used to turn, before Sea-magicks changed them into something less tree and more metal, less living and more phantom.  She is wrong in this wood, as are all her kind who fled north long ago for more reason than the rotting fort where forest meets plain; but in this wood spun in glass she lies in shades of mossy brown and blood red.  Beside this wood that is flotsam she is the fox on the shore, teeth and wiles and questions -- and oathless, and curseless, and free.

Red like the autumn that never ends, the last proud leaves of maple that cling, brave against the winter that comes and glorious in the setting sun.  Red like blood that boils in a thing that yet draws breath, and the holly-berries that shine through the snow, and crocuses bursting from the icy ground, and low fires that will not be put out.  Red, and hot, and roaring; and you know that against her you are pale and cold and still as the shoreline as the red sun rises above it.

You, you are like the wood where you have scattered the foam of your mothers, like the forest you have encased in salt and sand so that in the morning light it almost looks like home; you are all silver and gold and pearl, and the earth beneath your feet is too dark, too dry, too cold.  The world that never moves has changed and you who are light as the wind of your grandmother's mountain have not, and these are not your mountains nor your sea.  They are hers, and in her eyes you see she knows it.  In those eyes like the mottled light through leaves that die and live again according to the youngest and greatest star you see it.

In the thing that was Lindórinand the shadows grow long.


End file.
